Cecily Kellogg

Girl Culture

I’ve always had an issue with my body. As I’ve said before, I do not remember a time in my life when I didn’t think I was fat. As early as second grade, I thought I was fat. Here I am at that age (and here again in a worse dress); what do you think?

By the time I was in middle school (here), I really thought I was chubby. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I think that we as American women suffer from a universal body dysmorphic disorder; we all hate the way we look, and have no idea what we really look like.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a woman say she hated her body, I’d be swimming in dough. And I’d be willing to swap bodies with most of them in a heartbeat if given the chance; the women I know are gorgeous, and have strong, feminine bodies that are just beautiful. Not mine, of course. I may be strong, but… sigh. Yeah, I still hate my body too.

Grrl sent me a link to Lauren Greenfield's current exhibition of photographs called Girl Culture (it’s also apparently a coffee table book). Some of the images just make me sad (um, we won't even discuss the fetus bingo, okay?). The girls at fat camp, especially (they just aren't that fat!). Or the anorexic that can’t stand to see how much weight she’s gained during treatment so she gets on the scale backwards (meanwhile, she’s so weak she needs two people to steady her). The young girls all on anti-depressants. The little girl posing sexily at four years old.

Sarah’s daughter in only nine years old, but she’s already tried to french kiss her boyfriend and asks her mom if she “looks sexy” in various outfits. Sexual awareness seems to be happening earlier than ever; little girls playing dress up is one thing, but little girls jutting out hips and chests to look sexy is another. This is going beyond just the mimicing of adult behavior.

For a society that proclaims to want to stamp out sexual molestation and child pornography, we permit the sexualizing of little girls entirely too often (not to mention the current trend to make women look like little girls--brazilian wax, anyone?). I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarah’s daughter starts asking for a bra soon, even though she’s years away from having anything to put in it.

Who’s to blame? Sarah doesn’t allow her daughter to watch uninterrupted hours of Britney Spears on MTV, so where does she get it? It must be coming from the other girls at school.Or perhaps is because of the new marketing catagory of "tweens"--girls between six and eleven. Bratz dolls are a perfect example of a product geared to this age group--way too sexy for a six year old to play with! Even Barbie is less overtly sexual.

I remember the pressure to look like everyone else, to dress like everyone else. It was impossible for me when I was a kid—designer jeans were in (Calvin Klein, anyone?) and I was shopping at K-Mart and thrift stores. By high school, I said the hell with it, tore my clothes to shreds and dyed my hair pink. But as much as I acted the rebel, I still craved the approval of the other kids. I remember quivering with joy when this kid Paul once introduced me to a new student as “the coolest girl in our class.”

Another thing in the Girl Culture piece that made me sad is the young women that are stripping or are dreaming of becoming strippers. Can you imagine?

Now, I personally know probably more than my fair share of women that have danced for a living; lots of former strippers end up in my circles of friends (it's so common, in fact, that once I met a ballerina and when she said she danced I said, “Oh, what club?”). More than 90% of the women I know that made their living that way were sexually abused as children. There is definitely some sort of sexual boundary disconnect that happens, that allows these women to feel comfortable displaying their bodies that way (the other 10% of the women I know, most were addicts—but a few just did it briefly as a way to make money). I’m not asserting these claims as my own—this is what the women who’ve danced for a living have told me.

So, I wonder what the early sexualizing of our young girls is teaching them about their bodies? What kind of emotional issues will they have? What damage is being done?

Some of the Girl Culture exhibition made me laugh—like the girl frantically scrambling through her incredible mess of her room looking for the perfect outfit. So much less drastic a self-image issue than getting breast implants in high school (can you imagine? If I'd gotten them, I'd look like this now)

There are issues too big to go into here; we could talk about how all the hormones in our food (and the plastic it comes in) are making young girls develop at an earlier age. Or we could discuss the fact that as more women work outside the home, the more unrealistic the ideal female body image becomes (hard to be an effective executive if you have to starve yourself nearly to death to look good, right?). We could talk about the damage done by television and movies.

Or we can all just walk over to a mirror and tell ourselves we are beautiful. And tell the women in our lives that we think they are beautiful.

Cause you are beautiful, you know. You really, really are.

I’ve always had an issue with my body. As I’ve said before, I do not remember a time in my life when I didn’t think I was fat. As early as second grade, I thought I was fat. Here I am at that age (and here again in a worse dress); what do you think?

By the time I was in middle school (here), I really thought I was chubby. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I think that we as American women suffer from a universal body dysmorphic disorder; we all hate the way we look, and have no idea what we really look like.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a woman say she hated her body, I’d be swimming in dough. And I’d be willing to swap bodies with most of them in a heartbeat if given the chance; the women I know are gorgeous, and have strong, feminine bodies that are just beautiful. Not mine, of course. I may be strong, but… sigh. Yeah, I still hate my body too.

Grrl sent me a link to Lauren Greenfield's current exhibition of photographs called Girl Culture (it’s also apparently a coffee table book). Some of the images just make me sad (um, we won't even discuss the fetus bingo, okay?). The girls at fat camp, especially (they just aren't that fat!). Or the anorexic that can’t stand to see how much weight she’s gained during treatment so she gets on the scale backwards (meanwhile, she’s so weak she needs two people to steady her). The young girls all on anti-depressants. The little girl posing sexily at four years old.

Sarah’s daughter in only nine years old, but she’s already tried to french kiss her boyfriend and asks her mom if she “looks sexy” in various outfits. Sexual awareness seems to be happening earlier than ever; little girls playing dress up is one thing, but little girls jutting out hips and chests to look sexy is another. This is going beyond just the mimicing of adult behavior.

For a society that proclaims to want to stamp out sexual molestation and child pornography, we permit the sexualizing of little girls entirely too often (not to mention the current trend to make women look like little girls--brazilian wax, anyone?). I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarah’s daughter starts asking for a bra soon, even though she’s years away from having anything to put in it.

Who’s to blame? Sarah doesn’t allow her daughter to watch uninterrupted hours of Britney Spears on MTV, so where does she get it? It must be coming from the other girls at school.Or perhaps is because of the new marketing catagory of "tweens"--girls between six and eleven. Bratz dolls are a perfect example of a product geared to this age group--way too sexy for a six year old to play with! Even Barbie is less overtly sexual.

I remember the pressure to look like everyone else, to dress like everyone else. It was impossible for me when I was a kid—designer jeans were in (Calvin Klein, anyone?) and I was shopping at K-Mart and thrift stores. By high school, I said the hell with it, tore my clothes to shreds and dyed my hair pink. But as much as I acted the rebel, I still craved the approval of the other kids. I remember quivering with joy when this kid Paul once introduced me to a new student as “the coolest girl in our class.”

Another thing in the Girl Culture piece that made me sad is the young women that are stripping or are dreaming of becoming strippers. Can you imagine?

Now, I personally know probably more than my fair share of women that have danced for a living; lots of former strippers end up in my circles of friends (it's so common, in fact, that once I met a ballerina and when she said she danced I said, “Oh, what club?”). More than 90% of the women I know that made their living that way were sexually abused as children. There is definitely some sort of sexual boundary disconnect that happens, that allows these women to feel comfortable displaying their bodies that way (the other 10% of the women I know, most were addicts—but a few just did it briefly as a way to make money). I’m not asserting these claims as my own—this is what the women who’ve danced for a living have told me.

So, I wonder what the early sexualizing of our young girls is teaching them about their bodies? What kind of emotional issues will they have? What damage is being done?

Some of the Girl Culture exhibition made me laugh—like the girl frantically scrambling through her incredible mess of her room looking for the perfect outfit. So much less drastic a self-image issue than getting breast implants in high school (can you imagine? If I'd gotten them, I'd look like this now)

There are issues too big to go into here; we could talk about how all the hormones in our food (and the plastic it comes in) are making young girls develop at an earlier age. Or we could discuss the fact that as more women work outside the home, the more unrealistic the ideal female body image becomes (hard to be an effective executive if you have to starve yourself nearly to death to look good, right?). We could talk about the damage done by television and movies.

Or we can all just walk over to a mirror and tell ourselves we are beautiful. And tell the women in our lives that we think they are beautiful.

Cause you are beautiful, you know. You really, really are.

I’ve always had an issue with my body. As I’ve said before, I do not remember a time in my life when I didn’t think I was fat. As early as second grade, I thought I was fat. Here I am at that age (and here again in a worse dress); what do you think?

By the time I was in middle school (here), I really thought I was chubby. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I think that we as American women suffer from a universal body dysmorphic disorder; we all hate the way we look, and have no idea what we really look like.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a woman say she hated her body, I’d be swimming in dough. And I’d be willing to swap bodies with most of them in a heartbeat if given the chance; the women I know are gorgeous, and have strong, feminine bodies that are just beautiful. Not mine, of course. I may be strong, but… sigh. Yeah, I still hate my body too.

Grrl sent me a link to Lauren Greenfield's current exhibition of photographs called Girl Culture (it’s also apparently a coffee table book). Some of the images just make me sad (um, we won't even discuss the fetus bingo, okay?). The girls at fat camp, especially (they just aren't that fat!). Or the anorexic that can’t stand to see how much weight she’s gained during treatment so she gets on the scale backwards (meanwhile, she’s so weak she needs two people to steady her). The young girls all on anti-depressants. The little girl posing sexily at four years old.

Sarah’s daughter in only nine years old, but she’s already tried to french kiss her boyfriend and asks her mom if she “looks sexy” in various outfits. Sexual awareness seems to be happening earlier than ever; little girls playing dress up is one thing, but little girls jutting out hips and chests to look sexy is another. This is going beyond just the mimicing of adult behavior.

For a society that proclaims to want to stamp out sexual molestation and child pornography, we permit the sexualizing of little girls entirely too often (not to mention the current trend to make women look like little girls--brazilian wax, anyone?). I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarah’s daughter starts asking for a bra soon, even though she’s years away from having anything to put in it.

Who’s to blame? Sarah doesn’t allow her daughter to watch uninterrupted hours of Britney Spears on MTV, so where does she get it? It must be coming from the other girls at school.Or perhaps is because of the new marketing catagory of "tweens"--girls between six and eleven. Bratz dolls are a perfect example of a product geared to this age group--way too sexy for a six year old to play with! Even Barbie is less overtly sexual.

I remember the pressure to look like everyone else, to dress like everyone else. It was impossible for me when I was a kid—designer jeans were in (Calvin Klein, anyone?) and I was shopping at K-Mart and thrift stores. By high school, I said the hell with it, tore my clothes to shreds and dyed my hair pink. But as much as I acted the rebel, I still craved the approval of the other kids. I remember quivering with joy when this kid Paul once introduced me to a new student as “the coolest girl in our class.”

Another thing in the Girl Culture piece that made me sad is the young women that are stripping or are dreaming of becoming strippers. Can you imagine?

Now, I personally know probably more than my fair share of women that have danced for a living; lots of former strippers end up in my circles of friends (it's so common, in fact, that once I met a ballerina and when she said she danced I said, “Oh, what club?”). More than 90% of the women I know that made their living that way were sexually abused as children. There is definitely some sort of sexual boundary disconnect that happens, that allows these women to feel comfortable displaying their bodies that way (the other 10% of the women I know, most were addicts—but a few just did it briefly as a way to make money). I’m not asserting these claims as my own—this is what the women who’ve danced for a living have told me.

So, I wonder what the early sexualizing of our young girls is teaching them about their bodies? What kind of emotional issues will they have? What damage is being done?

Some of the Girl Culture exhibition made me laugh—like the girl frantically scrambling through her incredible mess of her room looking for the perfect outfit. So much less drastic a self-image issue than getting breast implants in high school (can you imagine? If I'd gotten them, I'd look like this now)

There are issues too big to go into here; we could talk about how all the hormones in our food (and the plastic it comes in) are making young girls develop at an earlier age. Or we could discuss the fact that as more women work outside the home, the more unrealistic the ideal female body image becomes (hard to be an effective executive if you have to starve yourself nearly to death to look good, right?). We could talk about the damage done by television and movies.

Or we can all just walk over to a mirror and tell ourselves we are beautiful. And tell the women in our lives that we think they are beautiful.

Cause you are beautiful, you know. You really, really are.

Snowflake Babies, Dominionism, Cultural Marxism and why I should stop reading the news

When I first heard President Bush refer to frozen embryos that are a product of IVF as "snowflake babies," I didn't pay it much mind. Obviously, he was using language to promote the idea that a frozen bundle of four to eight cells is actually a full fledged human being, and can go buy a car or run up a credit card like any good little American (but not a car from Ford!).

But as Maura recently said to me, it's creepy. It's clearly hinting that this administration is considering taking on the infertility industry; maybe they've taken a cue from the Pope.

Maura also sent me a link to this article in the current issue of Harper's. It chronicles the author's trip to the National Religious Broadcasters convention. One thing that stood out about the convention to the author was the fact that so many Christians sects were represented at this convention. Apparently, conservative Catholics, Pentcostal Christians, African-American Baptists and many others have set side their differences to promote the new doctrine called Dominionism. Here is explanatory quote from the article, which may be the most terrifying paragraph I've ever read:

"What the disparate sects of this movement, known as Dominionism, share is an obsession with political power. A decades-long refusal to engage in politics at all following the Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and, eventually, over the earth itself. Dominionists preach that Jesus has called them to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will no longer be a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the Ten Commandments form the basis of our legal system, Creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some Dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies, and a number of influential figures advocate the death penalty for a host of “moral crimes,” including apostasy, blasphemy, sodomy, and witchcraft. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced."

For the record:

a·pos·ta·sy   (-pst-s)
n. pl. a·pos·ta·sies

Abandonment of one's religious faith, a political party, one's principles, or a cause.

blas·phe·my    (blsf-m)
n. pl. blas·phe·mies

1. 1. A contemptuous or profane act, utterance, or writing concerning God or a sacred entity.
   2. The act of claiming for oneself the attributes and rights of God.
2.      An irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.

sod·om·y   (sd-m)
n.

Any of various forms of sexual intercourse held to be unnatural or abnormal, especially anal intercourse or bestiality.

witch·craft  (wchkrft)
n.

1. Magic; sorcery.
2. Wicca.
3. A magical or irresistible influence, attraction, or charm.

These would offenses punishable by death. DEATH.

I'd be first up, I'm sure. Let's see: I abandoned the religion of my childhood (Methodist); I've got an entire catagory on my blog called "Dear God: You Suck"; I write about blowjobs, that's gotta be sodomy in some eyes; and I've seriously considered Wicca as a personal spiritual path. So I'm definitely going to get the chair in the new order.

Oh--and did you hear that a judge can decide what religion you practice with your children?

After reading that article, Blurbomat directed me to this one about Pat Buchanan (yes, I've defended him in the past, since he hates the Neo-Cons so much, but no longer) his assertion that liberals have secretly organized a movement called "Cultural Marxism." Here is a quote from the article:

"The phrase refers to a kind of "political correctness" on steroids — a covert assault on the American way of life that allegedly has been developed by the left over the course of the last 70 years. Those who are pushing the "cultural Marxism" scenario aren't merely poking fun at the PC excesses of the "People's Republic of Berkeley," or the couple of American cities whose leaders renamed manholes "person-holes" in a bid to root out sexist thought.

Right-wing ideologues, racists and other extremists have jazzed up political correctness and repackaged it — in its most virulent form, as an anti-Semitic theory that identifies Jews in general and several Jewish intellectuals in particular as nefarious, communistic destroyers. These supposed originators of "cultural Marxism" are seen as conspiratorial plotters intent on making Americans feel guilty and thus subverting their Christian culture.

In a nutshell, the theory posits that a tiny group of Jewish philosophers who fled Germany in the 1930s and set up shop at Columbia University in New York City devised an unorthodox form of "Marxism" that took aim at American society's culture, rather than its economic system.

The theory holds that these self-interested Jews — the so-called "Frankfurt School" of philosophers — planned to try to convince mainstream Americans that white ethnic pride is bad, that sexual liberation is good, and that supposedly traditional American values — Christianity, "family values," and so on — are reactionary and bigoted. With their core values thus subverted, the theory goes, Americans would be quick to sign on to the ideas of the far left."

Um. Ok. And they say the political left is full of whacko consipiracy theories?

After I waded through that article, I went ahead and read the New York Times. Turns out that Indiana is attempting to do the same thing they did in Kansas--demanding the records of Planned Parenthood patients under 14 years old to allegedly investigate sexual molestation of minors. This time, however, abortion isn't involved at all--they just want to monitor the sexual behavior of minors. I was sexually active at 14 (I know, I know--it seems crazy to me now); and I was also a patient of a local Planned Parenthood type clinic. The idea that the state would be allowed to review my records and then call me in for questioning to determine exactly how I was sexually active is just beyond words.

There were some signs of hope, however.

Everyone is all excited about the news that Deep Throat was W. Mark Felt, the number two man at the FBI during Nixon's reign. Charlie and I were talking about it last night and Charlie wondered what made Mr. Felt come forward now; it got me thinking.

Perhaps in light of the recent Newsweek scandal (where a story was retracted because the "anonymous source" changed his/her tune), Mr. Felt thought coming forward would remind people of the important role the press plays in this country--and that anonymous sources are a critical part of that role and can bring down a president.

At least that's my theory. Course, most conservatives think that Mr. Felt is a traitor. But then, most conservatives these days would think Nixon was a liberal.

I'll say it again; this is all breaking my heart. All of this crazy stuff I've linked to has happened in the last WEEK. I love my country, and the idea of making it a Christian Dominion makes me want to tear my hair out.

I'm going to go cry now. At least Jon Stewart is back from vacation.

But as Maura recently said to me, it's creepy. It's clearly hinting that this administration is considering taking on the infertility industry; maybe they've taken a cue from the Pope.

Maura also sent me a link to this article in the current issue of Harper's. It chronicles the author's trip to the National Religious Broadcasters convention. One thing that stood out about the convention to the author was the fact that so many Christians sects were represented at this convention. Apparently, conservative Catholics, Pentcostal Christians, African-American Baptists and many others have set side their differences to promote the new doctrine called Dominionism. Here is explanatory quote from the article, which may be the most terrifying paragraph I've ever read:

"What the disparate sects of this movement, known as Dominionism, share is an obsession with political power. A decades-long refusal to engage in politics at all following the Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and, eventually, over the earth itself. Dominionists preach that Jesus has called them to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will no longer be a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the Ten Commandments form the basis of our legal system, Creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some Dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies, and a number of influential figures advocate the death penalty for a host of “moral crimes,” including apostasy, blasphemy, sodomy, and witchcraft. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced."

For the record:

a·pos·ta·sy   (-pst-s)
n. pl. a·pos·ta·sies

Abandonment of one's religious faith, a political party, one's principles, or a cause.

blas·phe·my    (blsf-m)
n. pl. blas·phe·mies

1. 1. A contemptuous or profane act, utterance, or writing concerning God or a sacred entity.
   2. The act of claiming for oneself the attributes and rights of God.
2.      An irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.

sod·om·y   (sd-m)
n.

Any of various forms of sexual intercourse held to be unnatural or abnormal, especially anal intercourse or bestiality.

witch·craft  (wchkrft)
n.

1. Magic; sorcery.
2. Wicca.
3. A magical or irresistible influence, attraction, or charm.

These would offenses punishable by death. DEATH.

I'd be first up, I'm sure. Let's see: I abandoned the religion of my childhood (Methodist); I've got an entire catagory on my blog called "Dear God: You Suck"; I write about blowjobs, that's gotta be sodomy in some eyes; and I've seriously considered Wicca as a personal spiritual path. So I'm definitely going to get the chair in the new order.

Oh--and did you hear that a judge can decide what religion you practice with your children?

After reading that article, Blurbomat directed me to this one about Pat Buchanan (yes, I've defended him in the past, since he hates the Neo-Cons so much, but no longer) his assertion that liberals have secretly organized a movement called "Cultural Marxism." Here is a quote from the article:

"The phrase refers to a kind of "political correctness" on steroids — a covert assault on the American way of life that allegedly has been developed by the left over the course of the last 70 years. Those who are pushing the "cultural Marxism" scenario aren't merely poking fun at the PC excesses of the "People's Republic of Berkeley," or the couple of American cities whose leaders renamed manholes "person-holes" in a bid to root out sexist thought.

Right-wing ideologues, racists and other extremists have jazzed up political correctness and repackaged it — in its most virulent form, as an anti-Semitic theory that identifies Jews in general and several Jewish intellectuals in particular as nefarious, communistic destroyers. These supposed originators of "cultural Marxism" are seen as conspiratorial plotters intent on making Americans feel guilty and thus subverting their Christian culture.

In a nutshell, the theory posits that a tiny group of Jewish philosophers who fled Germany in the 1930s and set up shop at Columbia University in New York City devised an unorthodox form of "Marxism" that took aim at American society's culture, rather than its economic system.

The theory holds that these self-interested Jews — the so-called "Frankfurt School" of philosophers — planned to try to convince mainstream Americans that white ethnic pride is bad, that sexual liberation is good, and that supposedly traditional American values — Christianity, "family values," and so on — are reactionary and bigoted. With their core values thus subverted, the theory goes, Americans would be quick to sign on to the ideas of the far left."

Um. Ok. And they say the political left is full of whacko consipiracy theories?

After I waded through that article, I went ahead and read the New York Times. Turns out that Indiana is attempting to do the same thing they did in Kansas--demanding the records of Planned Parenthood patients under 14 years old to allegedly investigate sexual molestation of minors. This time, however, abortion isn't involved at all--they just want to monitor the sexual behavior of minors. I was sexually active at 14 (I know, I know--it seems crazy to me now); and I was also a patient of a local Planned Parenthood type clinic. The idea that the state would be allowed to review my records and then call me in for questioning to determine exactly how I was sexually active is just beyond words.

There were some signs of hope, however.

Everyone is all excited about the news that Deep Throat was W. Mark Felt, the number two man at the FBI during Nixon's reign. Charlie and I were talking about it last night and Charlie wondered what made Mr. Felt come forward now; it got me thinking.

Perhaps in light of the recent Newsweek scandal (where a story was retracted because the "anonymous source" changed his/her tune), Mr. Felt thought coming forward would remind people of the important role the press plays in this country--and that anonymous sources are a critical part of that role and can bring down a president.

At least that's my theory. Course, most conservatives think that Mr. Felt is a traitor. But then, most conservatives these days would think Nixon was a liberal.

I'll say it again; this is all breaking my heart. All of this crazy stuff I've linked to has happened in the last WEEK. I love my country, and the idea of making it a Christian Dominion makes me want to tear my hair out.

I'm going to go cry now. At least Jon Stewart is back from vacation.

Interview with Artist Becca Dent

Even at an art college, Becca stands out. Primarily it’s the mohawk, and her overall sense of style. So I’d seen her around, and I always loved that twenty years after my own punk days, she was still carrying on that proud tradition. But we hadn’t really spoken in depth until I saw her senior thesis installation at this year’s exhibition.

Becca is Indian, adopted when she was four months old by a Caucasian American family. Her senior thesis is an exploration of her story. The installation is comprised of multiple elements, including three powerful photographic nude self-portraits (printed on muslin). In the first, she sits with her back to the camera, and her back is decorated with henna. In the second, she is seated, wearing a gas mask, with her stomach distended. In the third, the printed details of her passport run down her arm as tattoos, and the logo of the orphanage hovers below her.

When I asked her about these pieces, she told me that the gas mask image is representative of her birth mother—the mask illuminates the facelessness of her birth mother, and the oxygen tubing is symbolic of the umbilical cord. The portrait with the henna includes the name “Prema,” the name she traveled under (but not her actual Indian name).

Becca was left on the doorsteps of the Shishu Bhaven Orphanage in Delhi, India in April of 1980. Prema was another baby in the orphanage at the same time, and was adopted by the Dents of central Pennsylvania. The Dents named her Rebecca, but she died in the orphanage. Becca was sent in Prema’s place, using her already established paperwork. In her thesis Becca says, “I feel like I’ve been living Prema’s life.” Not a shock, since Becca celebrates her birthday on Prema’s birthday, and Prema is Becca’s middle name.

She always knew she was adopted; she laughs and says “Well, my parents are Caucasian so it was pretty obvious.” Becca didn’t find out about Prema until she began working on her thesis. She came across a photo and said to her mom, “Oh, look, wasn’t I cute?” and her mother told her that the photo was actually of Prema. Becca decided this year to celebrate Prema on their shared birthday. She ordered a cake with Prema’s photo and filmed her self lighting and then attempting to blow out endless candles (the video is included in the installation). She chose the endless candles to symbolize their shared legacy.

Becca grew up in Central Pennsylvania, one of only three people of color in her town. She says that her childhood was rough; school was difficult because of her different appearance. During high school she adopted her current style, deciding that if she was going to be different, she might as well choose how. She feels that it is important to challenge stereotypes, both in her person and in her art. She also feels strong—and that the difficulty she had as a kid has made her a better person. “It took me a long time to get to where I am,” She says. “But I learned to love myself, and I feel like I can take on or do anything.”

She doesn’t label or identify herself as adopted. “I never think about it,” She says, “unless someone sees me with my parents and asks questions.” She does, however, identify as Indian; when people ask if she’s Mexican or African-American she always corrects them.

But she doesn’t really want to be identified with any one group, even though working on her thesis has made her feel proud of her Indian culture. Interestingly, she’s often encountered negative reactions from other Indians; they think she’s not “Indian enough” in her dress and manner.

After her brother was born, her awareness of being adopted deepened. Her brother is also a bit more “goal-oriented” and tends to date “smart Christian girls.” Becca laughs and says, “He’s more together and I’m the art-school girl that dates punk losers.” I asked her if she feels like this is normal sibling rivalry or if her adopted status played a role; she said, “There were times that I looked around at my family and said, ‘I don’t belong here.’” But whether that was because she was adopted or an artist being raised by a minister, it’s difficult to say, but her physical appearance did play a role in her sense of isolation.

Yet she wouldn’t change anything about her upbringing. “Maybe it would have helped to be in an area with more diversity,” she says, “but how I was raised made me who I am.” I asked her if she struggled with issues of abandonment, like I do because of my father leaving me as a baby. “Maybe some,” she said. “I can be either really clingy in relationships or dump a guy if it gets too good. But overall, I feel really satisfied with my life and how it has led me here.”

Another element of her installation is a tape-recorded phone call she made to the orphanage. I asked what she hoped to learn from that phone call. “I just wanted to make a connection to someone who knew me from my brief time in India. I know I’ll never find my birthparents, so it wasn’t about that.” Unfortunately, the nuns that worked at the orphanage while she was there had all transferred to another orphanage in Calcutta. “But the best part of the phone call,” She says, “was when the sister who answered the phone asked me questions about me, where I was, if I was happy.” She has since sent letters to the sisters in Calcutta, but has yet to hear anything.

When she first started on this exploration into her identity, she wanted to discover, “What makes me Indian? What connection do I have to these people?” She feels that she forced herself into this quest, and that in some ways she is making up her story as she goes along. But she feels that she needed to do it; mostly to further her art, and to help her figure out what it is she wants her art to say. She is planning to travel after graduation, but for right now, she doesn’t have any desire to go to India. Instead she is taking a trip to London, which she feels will ultimately be more beneficial to her art. “The process of doing the thesis was painful enough; I don’t need an emotionally wrenching trip to India as well!” she says.

I asked if she’s ever met anyone opposed to international adoption; she hasn’t yet, and in fact feels proud of the fact that her family’s story inspired many other adoptions from India. “My cousin is also adopted from India,” she says, “and I’d love to sit down and speak with her about all this, but she’s only 16 or 17, so she might not want to get into it yet.” She was happy to hear, however, that the people hit hardest by the Tsunami earlier this year are working hard to keep their orphaned children in the country. “I’d heard that they’d already lost so many familiar faces, that the government felt that it would be better to keep them home,” she says.

But she doesn’t regret being adopted. When asked what she would suggest to people considering international adoption, she says, “Just be really, really direct right from the beginning.” I asked if she thought it was a good idea for parents to have their children study the culture of their birth parents. “If they want to,” she said. “They asked me when I was a kid if I wanted to join a support group for adopted kids and I said no, because I just didn’t think of myself that way. But they did cook a lot of Indian food when I was a kid; it was nice because I feel like I at least have a connection to the smells of India.”

When I asked if she felt it appropriate to do things like write letters to her birth parents, she looked at me like I’d sprouted two heads. “My parents are my parents,” she says.

Becca is a strong, passionate young woman. Her art is beautiful and compelling. She has an inner peace and sense of herself I envy. She is a tribute to all the things that have led her here; her parents, her Indian culture, and her clearly defined sense of self. Interviewing her was a delight. Thank you, Becca, for taking the time.

Movie Review

Tuesday Morning Movie Review!

Fever Pitch

First off, I must confess that I feel you just cannot go wrong with Drew Barrymore. I just love her. But I was cautious about seeing this movie because Jimmy Fallon kind of bothered me on Saturday Night Live (except as the dude from Boston), PLUS the dreaded Farrelly Brothers were directing this movie.

About 15,665,461 people (one of them being Sarah) absolutely INSISTED that Charlie and I would just LOVE “There's Something About Mary.” Even though I told people that I don’t think gross-out jokes are funny. And I don’t like Cameron Diaz. But, finally, after people just wouldn’t drop it, we finally went. And HATED IT. Absolutely were bored to tears.

So I’ve made a habit of avoiding movies by the Farraly Brothers. But I saw “Shallow Hal” one day when I was home sick, and was shocked—SHOCKED—to find that I enjoyed it and thought it handled the whole fat chick thing reasonably well for a movie that was playing it for laughs.

Plus Nick Hornsby wrote the book “Fever Pitch” is based on. I loved both “About a Boy” and “High Fidelity” (although I love anything with John Cusack—he’s dreamy), both movies based on his books. So, armed with that, and the fact that both Roger Ebert and the New York Times said the movie didn’t suck, we went.

It was absolutely wonderful. Maybe Drew wasn’t all that convincing as a busy ad/marketing/whatever person (it was totally obvious that she was just randomly opening files whenever she tried to look busy), and maybe Jimmy Fallon isn’t John Cusack, but DAMN this was a fine romance.

Because I’m married to a man with a rather arcane hobby/obsession (he’s into freight trains—and no, not model trains), I felt a particular sympathy for Drew’s character as she struggled with Jimmy’s character’s baseball obsession. Wrapping the whole story up around the season that the Red Sox actually WON the World Series is a particular flash of genius. Oh—and Jimmy Fallon’s character rents a copy of Roadhouse in the movie—which is my absolute favorite bad movie of all time.

On a final note, one of the nicest things about the movie is Drew's character has a friend who is a) successful, b) works out with her and her friends, c) is happily married to a good looking man and d) IS FAT!!!! It was so cool. And they didn't mention or address it once. She was just a big, beautiful, fit gal. That was getting laid. Awesome.

So if you want a warm hearted and believable love story—one that actually makes you laugh out loud—this is a great movie for you. And there is not a single cum-in-the-hair joke. Not one.

Forgiveness

I've spent a great deal of time thinking about forgiveness. I used to believe that forgiveness was about letting someone off the hook. Naturally, I was disinclined to let the folks I believed had wronged me off the hook. No way, baby.

Luckily, growing up tends to wring out such notions. It wasn't long before I realized that many of the "wrongs" I believed had been done to me were actually my fault. It wasn't until later, however, that I was able to see that forgiveness doesn't actual benefit the forgiven particularly--it benefits the forgiver instead.

In my experience, forgiving someone is like taking a heavy rock I've been carrying around and setting it down on the side of the road and walking away. I find my burdened lightened. It can be very freeing.

But it's miserably hard work. A few years ago I found myself sitting across from someone (an ex-boyfriend) who had wronged me considerably (he surprised me by moving out while I was at work one day, leaving me only a note) asking him to forgive me for the part I'd played in our breakup. This was nearly impossible for me because I still carried so much anger and resentment toward him for leaving me in the first place. As I looked at him, all I could see was the note (it said, "Cec, I thought about our relationship and moved." We'd been fighting a lot and I'd asked him to "think about our relationship" that morning). Apologizing to him was the hardest thing I'd ever done. He then told me he'd left that way because he'd feared I would injure him in a rage (yes, I was prone to rages in my drunken early 20's). In that moment, my anger toward him swelled even more strongly, then, suddenly, burst like a soap bubble. In that instant, I forgave him. I stopped caring that he'd hurt me. I let it go.

I haven't seen him since that day (at least not on purpose). I have no desire to. I don't want to be his "friend." In fact, I don't like him much at all. As a wise woman I met once said, this falls into the category of "Forgive you, but fuck you." My part is done. He's no longer on my radar. It's such a relief.

________________________________

I've been thinking about this again since I'd heard that the Amish attended the funeral of the man that murdered their daughters. Such is the nature of their religion; they not only invited the killer's family to the girl's funerals, they also went to his.

An act of forgiveness so huge I cannot fathom it.

The only vengeance the Amish will vent in this horrible story is on the schoolhouse itself. It will be destroyed, and they will build a new one instead. This seems entirely appropriate to me.

________________________________

Someone that has taught me a great deal about forgiveness is my husband.

We've been working on clearing out his mother's condo, now that she's living in a home. There is a lot to go through; it appears she stopped throwing anything away once she got sick with the Alzheimer's--there are hundreds of papers to examine and discard.

While going through them, we've come across some things. Charlie's mom was not a nice woman before she got ill. In fact, she was nasty. My very first impression of her came from the first time I visited Charlie's new apartment. I noticed a large finger smirch on the dust on the cover of his answering machine. I asked him about it, and he said, with a big sigh, "My mom." The first time she came to see our new house, I cleaned that place within an inch of its life. I mean, I scrubbed the baseboards. But when she came into the house, she made a beeline for the kitchen and put her hand on top of the fridge. At just barely over five feet tall, it hadn't occurred to me to clean there. Her hand came down sticky. The look she gave me! Ye gods.

Add that to the fact that I know she beat Charlie within an inch of his life when he was a kid (until he was 12 years old and he hit her back and said, "No more."), I found it hard to be fond of her before she got sick. Even now I find myself tolerating her more than actually liking her.

But Charlie, amazing man that he is, has set all of this aside to take care of her. All the pain she caused him, all the grief, yet he dotes over her nearly as much as he dotes over our daughter. It's a beautiful thing to see. He practices forgiveness daily with her.

In her papers we've found notes listing his grievances against her. Poems of his where she's written "No good" in the corner. Each time we unearth something painful, I watch him just sigh and set it aside, forgiving her yet again.

________________________________________

This morning some jerk shoved me in his hurry to get off the train. He stepped on my foot too. Twenty minutes later I'm sitting at my desk still fuming over it when I remember about the funeral and the Amish. Maybe that man was ill and running to the restroom. Maybe a friend was in the hospital. Maybe he was just late for work. Whatever it was, it was such a minor offense. Yet these, I find, are the hardest to forgive.

Today, though, I took the lessons that Charlie and the Amish have taught me and said a quick prayer for the man. As soon as I did, my anger burst again and disappeared. I felt much better.

And that, I've learned, is the real gift of forgiving. Feeling better. Feeling lighter. Feeling clean.

Now, if I can just figure out how to forgive myself.

I've spent a great deal of time thinking about forgiveness. I used to believe that forgiveness was about letting someone off the hook. Naturally, I was disinclined to let the folks I believed had wronged me off the hook. No way, baby.

Luckily, growing up tends to wring out such notions. It wasn't long before I realized that many of the "wrongs" I believed had been done to me were actually my fault. It wasn't until later, however, that I was able to see that forgiveness doesn't actual benefit the forgiven particularly--it benefits the forgiver instead.

In my experience, forgiving someone is like taking a heavy rock I've been carrying around and setting it down on the side of the road and walking away. I find my burdened lightened. It can be very freeing.

But it's miserably hard work. A few years ago I found myself sitting across from someone (an ex-boyfriend) who had wronged me considerably (he surprised me by moving out while I was at work one day, leaving me only a note) asking him to forgive me for the part I'd played in our breakup. This was nearly impossible for me because I still carried so much anger and resentment toward him for leaving me in the first place. As I looked at him, all I could see was the note (it said, "Cec, I thought about our relationship and moved." We'd been fighting a lot and I'd asked him to "think about our relationship" that morning). Apologizing to him was the hardest thing I'd ever done. He then told me he'd left that way because he'd feared I would injure him in a rage (yes, I was prone to rages in my drunken early 20's). In that moment, my anger toward him swelled even more strongly, then, suddenly, burst like a soap bubble. In that instant, I forgave him. I stopped caring that he'd hurt me. I let it go.

I haven't seen him since that day (at least not on purpose). I have no desire to. I don't want to be his "friend." In fact, I don't like him much at all. As a wise woman I met once said, this falls into the category of "Forgive you, but fuck you." My part is done. He's no longer on my radar. It's such a relief.

________________________________

I've been thinking about this again since I'd heard that the Amish attended the funeral of the man that murdered their daughters. Such is the nature of their religion; they not only invited the killer's family to the girl's funerals, they also went to his.

An act of forgiveness so huge I cannot fathom it.

The only vengeance the Amish will vent in this horrible story is on the schoolhouse itself. It will be destroyed, and they will build a new one instead. This seems entirely appropriate to me.

________________________________

Someone that has taught me a great deal about forgiveness is my husband.

We've been working on clearing out his mother's condo, now that she's living in a home. There is a lot to go through; it appears she stopped throwing anything away once she got sick with the Alzheimer's--there are hundreds of papers to examine and discard.

While going through them, we've come across some things. Charlie's mom was not a nice woman before she got ill. In fact, she was nasty. My very first impression of her came from the first time I visited Charlie's new apartment. I noticed a large finger smirch on the dust on the cover of his answering machine. I asked him about it, and he said, with a big sigh, "My mom." The first time she came to see our new house, I cleaned that place within an inch of its life. I mean, I scrubbed the baseboards. But when she came into the house, she made a beeline for the kitchen and put her hand on top of the fridge. At just barely over five feet tall, it hadn't occurred to me to clean there. Her hand came down sticky. The look she gave me! Ye gods.

Add that to the fact that I know she beat Charlie within an inch of his life when he was a kid (until he was 12 years old and he hit her back and said, "No more."), I found it hard to be fond of her before she got sick. Even now I find myself tolerating her more than actually liking her.

But Charlie, amazing man that he is, has set all of this aside to take care of her. All the pain she caused him, all the grief, yet he dotes over her nearly as much as he dotes over our daughter. It's a beautiful thing to see. He practices forgiveness daily with her.

In her papers we've found notes listing his grievances against her. Poems of his where she's written "No good" in the corner. Each time we unearth something painful, I watch him just sigh and set it aside, forgiving her yet again.

________________________________________

This morning some jerk shoved me in his hurry to get off the train. He stepped on my foot too. Twenty minutes later I'm sitting at my desk still fuming over it when I remember about the funeral and the Amish. Maybe that man was ill and running to the restroom. Maybe a friend was in the hospital. Maybe he was just late for work. Whatever it was, it was such a minor offense. Yet these, I find, are the hardest to forgive.

Today, though, I took the lessons that Charlie and the Amish have taught me and said a quick prayer for the man. As soon as I did, my anger burst again and disappeared. I felt much better.

And that, I've learned, is the real gift of forgiving. Feeling better. Feeling lighter. Feeling clean.

Now, if I can just figure out how to forgive myself.